In Las Vegas, you can buy a gallon of filtered water for a quarter, five gallons for a dollar. You get it from these minature, white, wooden windmills located on various corners throughout the city. This afternoon, I was filling up a gallon jug while watching the people standing at the bus stop. This guy, who looked like Stephen Tyler from Aerosmith was sitting in the drivers seat of his nineteen eighty something tan on brown on brown van. He was forty feet from the bus stop. He opened his door with a loud metal scraping creek and yelled, “GOD DAMNED FUCKING ASSHOLE”. As he was pulling the door back to shut it, he caught my eye for a micro second before it slammed. Silence for two seconds as water continued to pour into my gallon plastic container. The brown van door creaked open again. He stuck his had out, turned it in my direction and yelled, “NOT YOU”, and then quickly slamed his door shut.

I don’t post memes. But…I’m posting a meme. I’m interested in who’s out there.

Post anything that you want (in comments), and post it anonymously. Anything. A story, a secret, a confession, a fear, a love — anything. Be sure to post anonymously and honestly. Post twice if you’d like.

*The following entry written a few days ago. Today it’s sunny, and I”m feeling better. Also, most importantly, HIGH SPEED INTERNET. The rainstorm that I will mention broke some sort of record for this time of year. When it was raining, I was driving around doing daily stuff that I usually do, and put gas in my car. How was I to know that the gas had water in it? Now I have learned, water in your gas tank will mess up your engine. We, with the help of mother internet, a pizza man, a sister, a brother in law, and a little deductive reasoning figured out the problem. It was a eight dollar fix with four cans of Heet (rubbing alcohol) poured in the tank to mix the gas and water together. Black water spewed out of the exhaust of my little black truck, as we idled in the driveway listening to AM radio. Angels sang from on high, Mr. X and I high fived, and then we drove to Target.*

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It’s raining here. We have no internet. It is a sad, sad grey day. No internet means sporatic dial up from Mr. X’s phone. The phone only has free minutes after nine, and he’s been playing online poker from nine until all hours of the morning.

If we’re getting married, does this mean I will be Mrs. X?

Jason the cat is living with us. Jason is X’s cat from Colorado. We need another animal like we need *insert something that you don’t need* but, his living situation was going away, and he had limited options.

Jason really wants to be friends with Toonces the cat. Toonces hates Jason. Murphy the dog wants to be friends with Jason the cat. Jason hates Murphy. It’s an interesting triangle with all three of them sitting seven feet away from each other, Toonces growling at Jason who is growling at Murphy who has her head on the floor in hopeful subserviance. We’ve had a few fur flying experiences. The worst being when Jason attacked Murphy clawing up her swollen, cancer, tumor eye. After the initial violence, our first reaction was to yell, “Murphy, don’t get blood on the Berber (carpeting)!” Then to make up a song, sung to the tune of John Cougar’s Blood on the Scarecrow. We only got as far as, “Blood on the Berber, Blood on the *insert something that rhymes with plow*. I’m sure if we worked on it, it would be pure comedy gold.

I don’t feel so good. In theory, I should feel great. In love, new house, better job situation. But I don’t. In fact, I feel downright lousy. I’ve been snippy and crabby to X and sullen and draggy at work. I’m lonely and my one friend in Vegas is an unreliable, flakey pothead that has no focus or goals and is at her best, when creating or being emeshed in drama.

*sigh*

I’m looking out of the window from our new loft. For a minute as I looked up from the screen, I thought there were mountains of snow on either side of the street. Actually, it’s mountains of light colored rocks and dirt.

Mr. X is in the garage installing a garage door opener.

I think it’s cool that delivery men and service installation people have to call for directions because the streets we live on aren’t on any maps.

I miss my peeps.

I know I have a good entry in here somewhere. But it’s deep and burried, and maybe only a beer or two can bring it to the surface.

We are in the new house. It is beautiful. A little too beautiful. I feel like I don’t belong here. So maybe I’ll drink a beer and tell you about our new dishwasher that actually tells you not to rinse the dishes because it grinds up food while it washes the dishes and, about how the builders shorted some main pipe thing to the street so we don’t get cable internet until they come and tear up the driveway.

You know you’re a grown up when shopping for a refridgerator is an exciting prospect.

I have a great desire to write something insightful, clever and witty. Unfortunately nothing really is coming to mind. My new pc keyboard is springy and glows purple. When I was buying it I called Mr. X to check for prices and specs online, since I was so enamored with the glowing purple lights I couldn’t see beyond it to important hardware specifications.

Now it is time to go refrigerator shopping. Maybe we can get a stainless steel one with a glowing purple light to match my laptop. We have the final walk through of the house on Friday and will be out of the swanky Budget Suites extended stay hotel, and into our new house.

I am alive.

I have news. Two pieces of news actually. Depending on who you are, either piece of news could be equally as shocking.

One: I am *deep breath* getting married.

Two: I *deep breath* bought a pc and am selling the mac.

There, two cats out of their bags.

That is all to report from cindigo dot com.